


Hesitation in Hearts and Hands

by cilceon



Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27343177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon
Summary: Now, Wanderer raised her tone so the occupants of the crypt below could clearly hear her, “Someone please tell me Carrington’s awake.” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the fear that Wanderer had been trying to hide.She swore she could feel the air move with the speed in which Desdemona’s and Deacon’s heads snapped up from the central cistern-turned table.Carrington responded from her left. “Ooh good, what trouble have you gotten yourself into today?”“It ain't her this time.” Drummer’s voice was sheepish as they stepped fully into the room. “Sorry to disappoint."“What happened?” Three voices spoke in unison, all holding an equal level of concern.(Way back when, perfect days led to perfect nights - that wasn't the same case now. rarely did a good hour pass without tragedy close behind. It'd do good for Wanderer to remember that, and that her hesitation could have consequences on more than just herself.)
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992751
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	Hesitation in Hearts and Hands

_“When Adam bit the apple, he did so because he trusted Eve. Because he loved her._

_Adam bit into that apple because the woman he loved told him to do so_

_\- no matter what their god said. Regardless of the rules of heaven._

_For what is heaven to a woman’s love anyway. What is a god to the woman who holds all your affection?_

_That was first sins of humanity- trusting each other._

_For Eve trusted as snake, Adam trusted Eve. I trust you._

_Maybe that's a sin - mirroring the first couple of existence. Maybe everyone is right about the two of us._

_That we are sinners and we have offended their god._

_But like I have said, what is a god to a woman’s love?_

_What has heaven got that I can't find sitting next to you on a cool autumn morning?”_

_– maybecowboycore, paraphrased –_

It was a perfect day. The sun was shining down with a soft pleasantness, the breeze dulling any heat before it could become uncomfortable.

In hindsight that should have been Wanderer’s first inclination that something was going to go horrifically awry.

The weather was clear since she left the catacombs of the church that morning, and she was sure the sunset would be equally as beautiful.

This, with the start of the sunset and where she was in relation to the Old North Church, meant they should arrive back in HQ with enough time passed for Carrington be to be over his late afternoon grumpy and be back into his normal cheery self.

The job Wanderer and Dogmeat were returning from went off without a hitch _–_ granted it was farther away than she would’ve liked to be traveling alone. But that couldn’t be helped. The haul from that DIA cache was going to keep Dayton nice and safe for months, it was worth it.

Her furry companion was even allowed to stretch his legs and run for a bit when they’d reach flat stretches of land. The perfect scout, that dog. Now that the pair was back in the maze of Boston, he stayed close to her side.

As they rounded a street corner, the dog in question lowered into a growl – a movement that was rarely a good sign. Double that enmity when Dogmeat’s muzzle was turned towards a roof top as it was now.

There were two options to what could be on that roof. A very large angry bird, or a sniper. Dogmeat had a pension for growling at snipers more than he did birds of unusual size, so it was safe to say it was someone with a gun on that building.

That was easy. Something she could deal with – provided that she was able to shoot them before they saw her.

Wanderer moved back behind the building corner they had just passed, pulling out the rifle that Tom had made just for her, and began combing the skyline in the direction Dogmeat refused to turn his eyes from.

With the intimidating crinkle of his snout and ferocity in his normally soft brown eyes, she remembered that this dog was a killing machine.

Though he would constantly lick her face whenever she laid down next to him, that same mouth had wrapped around countless a raider or other threat with a hallowing finality.

Wanderer took her thoughts from her companion, addressing the threat on the rooftop as a low growl left him once more. _Focus_ he seemed to say. A moment later the target was found through her scope.

The man looked to be a scavenger – most likely. Her first instinct was to assume that he was just watching the view.

This man just was admiring the setting sun and Dogmeat was just being over-protective of her. She was half a heartbeat away from slinging her rifle back over her shoulder and padding Dogmeat on the head when he pulled out a rifle of his own.

Surely this one motion wasn't enough to warrant taking his life, right? This man looked so young – maybe he was simply picking off a raider or a stray mirelurk from the river. Her husband had once confessed to her, that was the very aspect of war he despised more than any other. Killing only because it was what was expected of him.

 _Better safe than dead, Wanderer._ It was eerie how clearly she could hear Deacon's voice chatting in her head. He had repeated similar lines to that affect at her several times since they started travelling together. But still, she wasn't used to just killing something for no other reason than because they _might_ be a threat.

As the sun continued to lower, it reached an angle where it was able to glint off the rusted street sign across from her, blinding her for a moment. They were on the corner of Church Street.

She didn't move, she just continued to observe the man. He was pointing the gun in the direction of the Old North Church, but surely that didn't mean one of her friends was in danger. Gunners would frequently walk in that direction.

Dogmeat was growing more restless, like he could sense something that she couldn't with that nose of his. Something that she needed to handle, the problem being that she couldn’t fully see it. Wanderer’s hands tightened around her gun, the hesitation in her blood weighing her down, making the rifle feel over-cumbersome. Was this how Atlas felt with the world?

The man fired; her stomach dropped.

There was a sickening smile spreading across the man’s face that she could see clearly through her sight. All of his teeth, or at least the ones that hadn’t fallen out yet, were showing. The light of the sun reached those teeth now, making the grin seemed that of a predator. The facade around the stranger had fallen, and she was now looking at the monster that Dogmeat found.

Whatever this man had just shot, he had enjoyed it immensely. However, just as jarringly as the smile had appeared it left - replaced with an abject despondency.

Whoever he had shot seem to be still very much alive. This caused Dogmeat to growl again and she took a deep breath through her nose, tightening her pointer finger around her trigger, removing the scavenger’s head in tandem with her shoulder jutting backwards with the recoil.

The feeling of dread swelling up inside of her did not subside. Quite the opposite actually, as it was steadily growing. There was no conceivable way someone of her family was hurt. Runners didn't come through the front door. Glory should still be at Griswold and Deacon was far too careful for a coincidence to ever get the upper hand over him.

Her eyes darted from the rooftop to Dogmeat. “Run to them, boy.” She ordered.

He gave a short bark in response before he bounded off towards the church. Herself close behind.

Dogmeat was quite fast, even for a dog. He would get there a few minutes before she would. He couldn't help whoever was hurt if it were one of her own, but at least they would know she wasn't far behind – help wasn't far behind.

It wasn't more than half of a minute when Wanderer heard a howl, long and drawn out, full of sorrow. She ran faster, nearly tripping in the process.

Wanderer turned the corner to the front of the church and was met with a familiar blue jacket hooked over the ledge of the Paul Revere statue. A newsboy cap sitting gingerly on top of it.

Below the clothing was a crumbled mass leaning against the statue’s base. His white undershirt turning red with every second she stared at him.

Drummer Boy.

She yelled his name as she ran to him. When Wanderer reached his side, her knees dug into the concrete “Shit Drummer.”

“H-hey there Wands. Fancy singing you… all ah, the way out here.” He was paler than he was that morning, the freckles on his cheeks more prominent than normal.

Wanderer pressed a hand the hole in his shoulder in attempt to stop the bleeding, the pressure making her friend wince. Her other hand went to cut the side of his jaw tenderly, like he was a spooked animal. “You're gonna be okay Drummer.”

“Never been this happy to see this mutt before.” Dogmeat puffed out some air, before he laid down next to Drummer’s side, licking his hand. He smiled weakly up at Wanderer; it was full of a pain he was trying to hide. Drummer Boy was never good at concealing his emotions, she saw through the mask easily.

“I…heard a second shot…” His breathes were labored as he tried to keep some semblance of evenness to them. “Did– did you get ‘em?” His eyes move from the direction of the now dead scavenger to her. Those grey eyes of his were focused, thank god they were focused.

“Yeah, I got ‘em.” She choked on a tear, should she tell him that she was the reason that he was hurt. That her hesitation almost ended his life.

“Ya’ look… more upset than I do.” Drummer lifted his hand from the ground slowly and set it on Dogmeat’s head.

He closed his eyes as he took a deep breath, letting it out with a shaking rasp. The dog looked up at him more curious than concerned. It was no secret that Dogmeat normally wasn't a personal favorite of Drummer Boy’s. Though this wasn't a normal situation.

Wanderer swallowed heavily, “I hesitated Drummer, I should have fired faster than I did I'm so-”

“Not like you knew it was me.” He cut her off. “I’m still… breathing, don’t sweat it.” As he spoke, Drummer moved his hand on the top of the Dogmeat’s, ruffling his fur.

“Do you think you can stand?” She began to lift her hand slowly to look at the wound. There was so much blood that she couldn't tell if it was slowing down or speeding up. “We need to get you down to Carrington.”

“He’s…gonna be all colors off pissed off when he sees this.”

“Carrington? Upset about one of us being hurt? Being upset about anything? Why that’s never happened. He’s the happiest man in the whole wide world.”

Carefully as not to agitate the wound, Wanderer slung his good arm over her shoulder helping him stand, bracing against the statue as they did so.

“You've been spending too much– much time with Deacon, Wands… His shitty sarcasm is starting to rub off on you.”

_Deacon wouldn’t have let this happen._

“I'll have you know; I’ve been like this since long before that bald son of a bitch was even born.”

The sharp inhale as he winced in their shuffle through the threshold, cut off whatever witty response Drummer would have quipped. Once fully in the church, Dogmeat ran ahead. He turned his face towards her before looking into the darkness of the hall in front of them. “There might still be ferals on the ground floor.”

“Dogmeat’ll handle it.” They made their way to the first set of stairs that lead to the heart of the Railroad. “The steps are gonna be an absolute nightmare, let me know if I’m going too fast.”

“Will do, Wands.” His grip on her tightened.

It took much longer than either of them would have preferred, but when they had finally reached the doors leading to HQ, Drummer Boy stopped her from turning the handle.

She looked at him in silent question. His hand over her own had a cold to it that made her want to pull away.

“Thank you for coming to get me when you did.” He stated plainly, in classic Drummer Boy fashion. “Really. I mean it.”

Her voice was quiet, weighed down with shame, “You wouldn't be in this situation, had I been faster. Come on let's get you inside, Drummer.”

He let out a shaky sign as she opened the door and they hobbled through. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

“Good.” She tried to laugh but it came out as little more than a breath. Dogmeat pushed in front of them, likely heading towards Tom’s couch.

Now, Wanderer raised her tone so the occupants of the crypt below could clearly hear her, “Someone please tell me Carrington’s awake.” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the fear that Wanderer had been trying to hide.

She swore she could feel the air move with the speed in which Desdemona’s and Deacon’s heads snapped up from the central cistern-turned table.

Carrington responded from her left. “Ooh good, what trouble have you gotten yourself into today?”

“It ain't her this time.” Drummer’s voice was sheepish as they stepped fully into the room. “Sorry to disappoint."

“What happened?” Three voices spoke in unison, all holding an equal level of concern.

Before he had even finished the question, Deacon was on the other side of Drummer Boy, taking the weight that Wanderer was carrying.

Carrington tossed the rag in his hand to the side as he flashed a look of unease at Drummer’s direction. The doctor tore his eyes from the blood of his shirt and began to prepare a space for the man in his makeshift operating room.

Desdemona was there with them a moment later. Her hand coming to rest on Drummer Boy’s non-injured shoulder. “How bad is it?” Their leaders voice was gentle- in the way a mother would talk to their child or a teacher to a crying student.

Wanderer answered in his place. “He's lost a lot of blood. The bullet’s still inside.”

“…Sorry Doc.” Drummer kept his eyes to the floor.

“Don't be sorry, be careful.” Carrington's voice was uncharacteristically kinder as well, matching Desdemona’s. When they got Drummer to the table, he spoke again. “Will the three of you step back, please. I need space to work.”

They did as requested, Wanderer the farthest back of the three. Deacon leaned against a pillar opposite of her with his arms folded – his glasses not leaving their friend.

Desdemona's brow furrowed into a look of sympathy as Carrington helped Drummer Boy remove the shirt. It was hard to believe that it was ever white in the first place with the blood that was seeped through it. “Aright.” Dez began, “What happened.”

Drummer Boy was looking at the ground still, his hands on either side of his body gripping the gurney as tightly as he could manage. “I wanted to see the sunset, Dez.” His voice sounded so small, the usual gruffness that was in it weak and light like a feather. It made her wonder how old Drummer was. Surely no older than herself?

Carrington moved towards the wound with a relatively clean pair of tweezers in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Desdemona’s lips were pursed in a thin line as she nodded for him to continue.

“It was just the sunset.” He repeated, like he himself didn't believe his own words. “There was a sniper or something on some rooftop I didn't see – I mean yeah. I looked… of course I looked… I just didn't _see_ him. Shoulda left my jacket on, the ballistic weave would have pinged it right off but ah! –”

Carrington started to dig for the shrapnel of the bullet without warning, cutting him off. The doctor’s frown growing to the point where it could have reached the floor. “This was a hollow point bullet, Drummer Boy it would have gone through your coat.”

The young man's eyes on the floor saddened for moment before he looked up at no one in particular. “Well hell, at least there's no hole in it. Be a real shame if there was a hole in my favorite jacket now.” He glanced around the corner of the catacombs they had found themselves in, seeming to realize the piece of clothing in question was still topside. “Wands, I hate to ask but could you–” He yelped again as Carrington continued on with his scavenger hunt.

Desdemona moved back closer to Drummer, her hand resting on his knee.

“It's alright Drummer, I'll go get it for you.” Wanderer couldn't take looking at the blood anymore. “And your hat too.”

She was already turned around and halfway to the hallway as his winced out with Carrington’s motions. “Damn. I– I didn't realize it wasn't on.”

“That would be because you are going through shock, Drummer Boy. Please stop moving.” Carrington snapped, followed by the clattering of metal - like he was switching to a different tool.

“Wanderer.” Desdemona called to her, “Is the threat taken care of?”

Drummer Boy responded in her place with a short, slightly pained laugh. “Taken care of? I saw the asshole’s head fly to heaven from my view on the ground.”

She didn't turn around to confirm with Desdemona. She supposed what Drummer said would have to be enough. She rounded the corner fully out of sight and climbed the stairs to the door.

Wanderer hadn't realized that she was shaking so much. Her hands were so tightly wound into fists that her nails, even in their bitten down state, were likely breaking the skin of her palms.

With every movement closer to the surface, more drops of blood on the ground below her appeared. Pools growing larger and larger as she reached the final set of stairs. Upon reaching the front door of the church, she rested a hand on the wood in front of her. Her eyes wouldn’t leave her hand.

She felt cold if there was a desire for her to move it was virtually nonexistent. Her hand was covered in drying blood cracking and flaking off. It was her friend’s blood.

Wanderer stayed there, starring at the flecks of gold from her wedding band peeking through the red seemingly to taunt her.

If she hadn't had hesitated. This would not have happened.

If she were simply faster, Drummer Boy would not be in pain right now. If she were more perceptive, she would have realized the church was where the scaver was aiming much sooner.

She should have known that it was someone from HQ that he was aiming at. Who else could it have been?

Of course, the man's intentions were rooted in malice; they would be nothing else. If Nathan were in her place, this would have never happened. If she would have just–

“You're not the one that shot him, Wanderer.” Of course, Deacon was behind her.

She let out a shaky breath and looked over her shoulder at the man. He was leaning against one of the decaying walls, next to the hole leading into the main section of the church. His arms were crossed in the same manner as they were when they were downstairs.

How had she not noticed him on the way up?

“You were probably trying to figure out what the guy was aiming at, right? You wanted to make sure he was actually a threat before you took action.”

Her stare returned to her hand against the door. “Deacon,” Her voice cracked at his name. God, she hated when that happened. More often she found - as the days with him turned into months – was that this man's name alone could brake whatever barrier she had built. Two syllables were all it took. A wall is steel she had become, yet the second he was near her, it softened into something resembling more akin to glass, “I could have gotten him _killed_.”

He stepped towards her now, coming into the light from the window. The cloth that Carrington had thrown aside earlier was now in his hands, darkened with water. “But ya’ didn’t. You took care of the problem and now Drum’ll a cool scar to show off to all the ladies.”

With a tenderness she would not normally place in him, he took her right hand into his left and then dabbed it with the weight of the rag - cleaning the blood off. His voice was lower too, the gentleness in it made her heart ache and a tear fell down her cheek. He paid it no mind. “He's not mad at you pal. Hell, he'll probably be telling everyone about it every time he gets any liquor inside of him.” Deacon was smiling, a soft, caring smile that hurt her to look at for too long. “Ya’ know, just between you and me, Drummer is one hell of a lightweight. Probably the lightest one the Commonwealth’s seen in a while. Remind me to tell you about the last time Glory got him and me out in Goodneighbor, 'cause that's a damn fun story. Ah, but make sure you ask when he's in earshot.” The smile grew more playful for a moment. “I want to see his cheeks and ears turned pink in again. I'll tell ya’ Wands, I didn't know someone could blush that brightly till Little Drummer came along.”

He flipped her hand back and forth a few times, slowly examining it until he was satisfied that the majority of the blood was gone. He took his hands away from hers, she let it fall to her side. He held out his palm expectantly, waiting for the other to be placed in it.

She was still in front of him, unsure of what to do. Wanderer was fully crying now. Not a heart wrenching cry, necessarily, but tears were silently falling down her cheeks, her reflection in his glasses said as much. “Deacon.” His name was uttered again, and again her voice cracked with the weight of it. “I – I coulda gotten him killed.”

He didn't respond this time. Instead, Deacon grabbed her left hand in one motion, not waiting any longer for her to comply, or maybe he just wanted her to stop talking. Because of the glasses, she couldn't tell.

She could never tell what this man was thinking.

Deacon held her hand for a moment before taking the rag to it. “But you didn't.” His voice was serious in a way she hadn't heard before, his tone was still soothing – but now it held a devoted sort of determination in it. She could feel his eyes peering into her behind those darkened lenses. “But you didn't.” He repeated himself, “He's going to be just fine. Everything is going to be okay– I promise… Please don't cry, Char.”

That was what Hancock called her, and Preston and Sturges. Nick, sometimes – but never Deacon. A shortening of her full name reserved for her dear friends; she wasn't even sure he knew about it till this very moment.

The shock from the name stopped her tears altogether and she looked from their hands nearly intertwined to her reflection, “Do you honestly think Drummer would go up to a woman and talk to her?”

He took the rag and patted at her ring finger with it before returning her smile, “That's actually part of the Drunk Drummer story. Honestly, he was so pink, he had looked like the inside of a mutfruit. The man gets _one_ watered down beer inside of him and suddenly he thinks he can take on the world. Now, if you give him some of the good stuff though – the top shelf stuff? I'm sure he'd be convinced he could takedown the deathclaw faster than even you could, and Glory would let him try it. Course, she be there to actually take the beast out once Drum started running away – you know how terrifying that woman can be. Honestly, I'd put caps down on her being able to take a dozen of the giant bastards out by herself in a matter of minutes.”

She watched the motion of his hand with hers as he spoke. The way his fingers would almost lace with her own before shifting – as if he grazed over a hot coal.

“I don't think I've ever seen Glory tipsy though – I wonder how long that would take.” He gasped playfully, “We should totally do a test on that. I can add to my little research notes for my upcoming bestseller: _101 Ways to Get Glory to Want to Kill Me_. I'll give you a sneak peek. Number one through thirty-four, involve just being in the same room as her.” He was really just saying whatever thought that popped into his head, wasn't he?

Why was her friend rambling on like he was nervous? He would do this a lot, now that she was really thinking about it. Whenever she was sad or maybe just because he was bored.

They had both been on separate jobs for over two weeks now. That was longer than they had usually been apart in the last months. He was running some important intel op on the Brotherhood, that she was far to recognizable to be any help with.

That morning, he had just got back as she was leaving. The only acknowledgement, they had shared of each other was a smile from her and a nod from him before he disappeared into PAM’s room.

She had missed him, and almost every time a door opened in HQ or she returned, she would scan the area in hopes of seeing him. Always disappointed in the expected reality that he wasn't back yet.

Deacon let her other hand go now, it felt like he did so regretfully and he looked at her, head angled ever so to the slide that his glasses shifted, revealing the corner of one of his orange eyebrows.

He gestured to his own face with a twirling finger. “You got a bit of ah… stuff right about here.” His hand moved from his jaw down to the start of his shoulder, alluding to the blood that she had on herself from propping up Drummer to carry him downstairs.

On instinct, Wanderer lifted up a hand to touch the drying blood before Deacon lightly swatted her away. “Ah, ah, ah! I just got your hands cleaned. Here.” He moved closer to her, folding the rag the opposite way it was prior, to get to a cleaner side.

She fluttered her eyes closed as she felt the dampness of the cloth touch the side of her neck. The movement was almost as light as wind and she doubted he was actually taking anything off.

Her eyes stayed closed as Deacon’s other hand went to the opposite side of her neck – he tilted her head into it. The rag going to the underside of her jaw before moving up to her cheek.

“Thanks, Dee.” The words came out quieter than she wanted them.

“It’s my pleasure.” He matched her volume. “I know how you feel about this stuff.”

It was true, she made no effort to hide it. Though, with the passing months Wanderer had gotten better with seeing so much blood, it still unnerved her a great deal. That shade of scarlet was supposed to be reserved for her favorite dress and lipstick. For her husband's car and the tiny rocket on Shaun’s crib mobile.

Wanderer hated how cold blood would become when it was no longer inside of a person. Like life itself was being sucked away with the heat. It wasn't a part of her world. Growing up she was fortunate enough to be in safe neighborhoods. The first dead body she saw was at her law school, in her twenties.

The rag had left his hand now, falling to the floor – forgotten.

Either one of Deacon's hands rested on the sides of her jaw. Wanderer flickered her eyes open, looking up at him in response.

“Are you okay?” He stated simply, back in the character she didn’t recognize.

“I'll be fine.” She smiled and he lifted one of his hands ever so faintly, brushing his thumb across her cheek, taking away the last of the tears. His thumb was callused -but not in an unpleasant way. It was like a craftsmen’s or a musician’s. She found herself wondering what he could have been if everything were different. If tragedy had never stolen his name.

“We should probably get Drummers stuff and head back.” His voice was still quiet – like he didn't want the words to be said in the first place.

“Right,” It was a whisper coming out, “We don't want them getting worried now do we?”

“Right you are, my friend.” He pulled away from her as she turned to the door. Blood stained the wood from the evening’s earlier events, but she pushed passed it – into the dusk of the Commonwealth.

Deacon, in his normal fashion, not far behind.


End file.
